


Heavy in the Heart, Heavier in the Home

by forcepair



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Action/Adventure, American Mafia, Anxiety, Bad Decisions, Bill Cipher Possessing Ford Pines, Bill Cipher is a Jerk, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Gangsters, Gen, Inspired by Welcome to Night Vale, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Nymphs & Dryads, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Protective Stan Pines, Sleep Deprivation, Slow Burn, Swearing, The Northwests are Corrupt, Unreliable Narrator, i should be sleeping right now, okay i really don't know what to tag anymore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18430097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcepair/pseuds/forcepair
Summary: It's all going to be fine, you tell yourself on a daily basis until the legendary morning migraines cease. It's like another normal weird day in Gravity Falls, Oregon. You just have to manage Ford's shack while he's gone in god-knows-what dimension, make sure Stan doesn't try to commit murder in honor of his new tourist trap, and suck up the fact the Northwests are breathing down your necks becausesomeonemade a stupid decision.Oh, also don't forget to make pies for the gnomes. They can hold grudges if they can remember.





	1. A Dozen of "Apparently's"

**Author's Note:**

> i'm going to hell, and at least you're with me. also, this is severely unedited
> 
> note 4/15/19: another apparently: i'm quite unsatisfied with this chapter, so i extended it rather than putting the last two scenes in the second chapter. so here ya go and expect the next update in a few days!!

You had been running errands to restock the kitchen and find his twin brother somewhere in America when Ford Pines wounded up trapped in an alternate dimension. At first, you thought that the absence of his welcome greeting at the door, disguised as crossbow and hysteria, was simply because he's holed up again in his laboratory in the basement.

"Ford, I'm back!" you yelled towards the darkness, stuffing the keys back in your pocket and kicking the door close.

No response, as per usual when he's too engrossed in his research.

At the very bottom of your stomach, there's nagging feeling--something's not right. You wanted to check on him to make sure he's not threatening the gnomes' hats with a spoon or mashing triangular corn chips into pieces with a sponge again, but you have confiscated every possible weapon he could make out of from household materials and it's been more than three weeks since the last time he had decimated any three-sided object.

Sighing, you simply rearranged the massive grocery bags in your arms and padded your way into the kitchen.

It's been more than half a decade when you had accepted to be Ford's assistant in discovering the anomalies of America, mainly delegating your skills in fixing whatever he crashes during his experiments or whipping up warm homecooked meals more than three times a day for him rather than pursuing your scientific inclination. You were more than happy in that set-up, helping out Earth's next top scientist because, man, for a genius like him, he cannot have a decent livelihood. It was evident on how he managed to turn the shack into a science fair dumpster within a week of your absence.

The nagging feeling kept on growing and growing inside of you while you stocked the grocery items in places where you usually put them until it's time to stop ignoring maternal instincts telling you that you really need to check on Ford.

As you were about to grab a pack of jelly beans from the upper cupboards, in case you need to appease him from his hourly apocalypse paranoia, you heard a loud bodily flop against, what you guess, on the couch at the other room, followed by a long gruffly sigh that was all too familiar.

"Ford must've defrosted Ex. 210 again," you muttered desolately before fishing for the freeze gun conveniently stored in the refrigerator for cases such as this. This was for the reason since Ford had a bad habit of sleeping on the control panels of his hidden bunker which led to accidentally releasing the shapeshifter from its cryogenic stasis. The first time it had happened, Experiment #210 took on his form that eventually had lead to an hour-long dilemma of deliberating which was the real Stanford Pines.

Chest puffed out and freeze gun ready to aim, you slowly made your way to the living room. Any action-star-inspired move you were about to do was entirely diminished upon seeing which form the shapeshifter took. Your grip on the freeze gun loosen up momentarily, then you held it hard until your knuckles turned white.

This was some sick joke. It has to be! The last time you saw him was nearly a decade ago; Experiment #210 must have been scouring through your photo album when you were away.

The figure, who's definitely not Ford (judging by the questionable stains all over his clothes; you'd see to it that his clothes are laundered pristinely, _thank you very much_ ), was lying on the couch looking down in the dumps more than the last time you saw him back in that diner in Seattle. He was breathing rather shallowly like he had been through tooth and nail all these years.

Ford's first journal was in his hands.

Panic rose in your body. Ford wasn't the type of scientist who would let somebody else, including you and Fiddleford, touch his research materials, let alone someone who had ruined his chances to be enrolled in West Coast Tech. Your body surged forward, all intent in retrieving the journal, but the loose floorboard groaning under the weight of your foot gave your presence away.

"Mother Nature?" His body shot upright in shock, not knowing which rattled him more--you or the fact that you had him on gunpoint.

Hearing the nickname, you instinctively snapped at him, "Stop calling me that! Okay?" Then, you let out a sigh, thankful that it's the real Stanley Pines. He was one of the few who'd call you that back in high school, and there's no way that Experiment #210 could have known that. Besides, Ford preferred calling people by their names, unlike his twin.

You lowered the freeze gun; and, his shoulders sagged back against the couch. "Did ya teach Sixer to welcome your guests by threatin' them?" he deadpanned.

Despite the dim lights, you could see him better than earlier. Stan's appearance was far worse than you had last seen him. With his bleary eyes, malnourished body, and unwashed clothes, he seemed like he had crawled out of hell all these years.

"Sorry, thought you were Experiment #210."

"Experiment what-now?"

You ignored that. There was still a question looming inside your head. "Where's Ford?" you asked, suddenly becoming fearful for whatever answer he had because all the life in his eyes turned glassy.

"Y'know the triangle thingy, with the blue glowin' hole. All the picture nonsense around it, huh?" he rambled uncomfortably. His fingers gesturing all over the place as he tried to find the right words. "He, uh, went through it."

Your heart dropped down, down, and down to a metaphorical bottomless pit. The freeze gun slipped from your fingers as you did the same against the threshold. Your maternal instincts over Ford was right all along. A humorless laugh escaped your lips, muffling it as you smothered your face in your hands.

Then, a thought, in the form of a particular manic laugh, flickered inside your head.

Bill _fucking_ Cipher.

Palms flat on the floor, you pushed yourself from the floor, hard, and made the clumsiest sprint of your entire life down the basement, ignoring Stan yelling out your name behind you and the heavy heart sinking inside your chest. Adrenaline rushing through your veins, you slammed the panel open, hitting the wall with a loud clang, before your fist punched the alchemical codes aggressively that might have broken the keypad.

 _Composition, pulverize, digestion, and fusion_. Just as what Ford had instructed you.

Stan was hot on your heels just you were about to enter the elevator. "Wait!" he pleaded.

Almost all motion in your body ceased to move, fingers hovering the down button. Your heartbeat was all over the place, and you had to save Ford before it was too late! Although because of your flustered state, you had forgotten about his twin brother's presence.

With a mumble of an apology, you let him enter the elevator with you. Both of you stayed silent in the duration of the elevator's descent, save for Stan's awkward ice breakers that sounded like he was hesitating to simply open his mouth. You couldn't blame him though; the tension of Ford's apparent disappearance hanging in the icy air.

You were never around in Ford's laboratory that much since you only came there for domestic reasons: bring him food three times a day, retrieve the dishes to wash, and provide him a clean change of clothing. So his absence when you were down there only wounded you furthermore, and for the ever-loving Christ, you were just the housekeeper a week ago! Now you were some wannabe Hercules with twelve doctorate degrees in quantum physics, or whatever did Ford took up in college. You knew, you just had forgotten. Stress just made your brain mushy and all that shit.

With the exception of the owner hunched on the built-in desk behind the numerous switches, the underground laboratory looked like what you last saw it last week. It was dark with the colorful glowing buttons, screens, and barometers igniting the room. If you hadn't been in a panic rush, you would have brought a lantern just as you would always do.

It was too cold for your taste down here, probably another reason why you weren't here much especially during winter. The temperature was biting through your skin, and you hated that it's another factor that's breaking your heart.

But, you were still determined. With Stan behind, you scanned the screen scanning the portal's status. Ford taught you enough of the symbols that meant "energy at zero percent" and "recalibrate." And that made it harder for you to think of a solution to bring him back.

Fucking physics, or whatever branch of science this was. All of Ford's expertise wasn't considered in your jack-of-all-trades expertise. Couldn't it be just home economics so you could bullshit your way into the other dimension and grab Ford by the ear to drag him all the way back home?

Glancing behind, you asked, voice softened by pain and temperature. "What happened?"

He looked ashamed of _something_ ; you noticed when he didn't meet your eyes as he tried to find an explanation. That's why you didn't pry further.

"It's okay, Stanley." Those words sounded more like, "I understand." Dumb of you to say so, but you were running out of comforting words to that fit in this situation. Dumb enough to the extent that you were surprised that he was ticked off by that, making you take a step backward.

"It's not okay, okay?" His fists clenched tightly, and for a fleeting second, you thought that he would hit the nearby radar but thought so otherwise. "It's my fault! I pushed Stanford because I was bein' a jerk and all." You swore you heard him mumble as an afterthought that Ford's more of a jerk.

"Stanley."

"I just had him back, and now he's gone again because I was a real knucklehead." He sighed; his body as deflated as an helium-less balloon. "Dad was right. I always mess things up, don't I?"

"Stanley," you repeated; his name rough on your tongue with your teeth gritted against each other tightly. Blinking out the memories you had with Ford flashing rapidly seemingly all at once, you inhaled slowly. "Save Ford, regret later," you reassured him.

"Yeah," he said gruffly. "Save Ford, regret later."

He sounded that being weird couldn't possibly rescue his brother.

* * *

 

None of you had any idea on how to bring back Ford as he never told you the whereabouts of his other journals. Apparently, he hid the other two sequels somewhere in the sleepy town of Gravity Falls while you were away on finding the whereabouts of Stan. Journal 1 was deemed useless without the other two.

Both of you sat on the ground near the portable blackboard, cross-legged and side by side throughout the frigid darkness.

"It's not that I doubt he'll survive. Sure, he's such a dexter and all. He can brave any interdimensional whatsoever, yet facing Bill Cipher is another story to tell."

"Ya mean this one-eyed Dorito?" With his index finger, Stan pointed at the illustration of the said dream demon on the page of Journal 1 propped between your knees. It's been almost an hour or two since he caught up with what had transpired on the six-year stay of Ford's encounter with the anomalies of Gravity Falls. To be honest, you were rather impressed that he believed you and the town's weirdness in spite of his usual snarky inputs between your stories.

"He's more than that," you explained with a grave expression that seemed to tense him up like you were about to tell a bedtime story to a kid. "He can enter dreams and such. One night, he entered Ford's dreams and showed him the way to a place that said to unlock the secrets of the Falls---" you swallowed hard "---Then, things happened here and there wherein Bill managed to enter Ford's mind, suggesting that he's a charitable sentient. He was more than willing to offer answers in exchange for freedom. Turns out that he's just a smooth operator."

A beat or two passed between you.

"So, what do we do now?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck.

"Well, the first thing is to punch that equilateral demon in the eye."

"Ha, same. Might wanna make a deal so I could do that in the future."

Another surge of panic rose inside of you. "Don't! I know you're not the type who keeps promises, so here's a bit of motherly advice: Never make a deal and shake his hand."

"Not unless he's bein' a jerk or somethin'."

"Stanley." You made your tone as stern as you could possibly do.

He sighed, stubborn as a mule. "Ugh, fine! But no promises, m'kay?"

"Wonderful," you said. Satisfied, your shoulders slumped back at the icy wall. A small grin formed in your face that's barely even there, but at least the mood was lighter than before.

During the night, the underground laboratory wasn't a favorable place to lounge in, especially in the winter season. You convinced Stan that it was time to resurface upstairs, where ignorance of the weird is bliss rather here when knowledge can tear down one's sanity.

On the elevator ride, Stan held unto the journal and never let it go. You didn't make a comment about it as you knew guilt was still eating him out alive. But you did make a comment on the familiar mark branded on his right shoulder.

"Good God!" You immediately grabbed his shoulder and inspected it up close. The mark was flaming red and searing hot which shocked you when it has been a while since his brawl with Ford and the fact that the underground laboratory was extremely cold.

"Huh, wha'? Watcha doin'," Stan asked, having forgotten that he had burned his shoulder. He twisted his body around to look at where you were baffled about, and he let out the most underwhelming, "Oh, forgot about that."

"Dammit, Stan! You could've infected that or something worse." Your first instinct was to search for the first aid kit that was lying around somewhere in Ford's study--you couldn't exactly remember. But, your feet were carrying you towards the bathroom and your gaze was out in the window where ice cold snow was falling from the sky.

Before you could even slip into your mother hen state, Stan grabbed both of your shoulders to calm you down. "Hey, hey, Mother Nature." You glanced up; your usual follow-up glare to that nickname disappearing upon seeing that he had that signature grin he gives both you and Ford whenever he did something stupid by conventional standards.

"'M fine, ya see?" He presented himself to you in a grandeur manner as if he's marketing himself to you, and he's back into his goddamned traveling businessman days.

You rolled your eyes, though deep inside, grateful he's still the Stan that you remembered back in sixth grade. "I can see that you're a wreck," you said over your shoulder as you grabbed a towel, Ford's, from the laundry basket on top of a stack of tattered textbooks and tossing it to him which he grabbed at ease. "Take a bath first, I'll cook you a meal, patch you up, and then you can eat."

He grumbled. "Yes, ma." Then, he disappeared into the bathroom, which at first he missed since he mistook the kitchen as the bathroom.

Your knees hit the armrest of the couch as you laid down, gaze upon the dingy ceiling which direly needed your magic cleaning touch. As you heard the water running from the shower head at a distance, you whispered to yourself, "Ford's gone." Because you really need to have a grasp of reality. Weird was the new reality here, and you didn't like it, not even one bit, not when the scientist you were babysitting had fallen through god knows where. Everything around you was happening too fast.

"Fuck you, Bill Cipher."

And, that summed up what happened.

* * *

 

After a painfully quiet dinner, which in fact, was the best he had eaten in ten years, Stan used Ford's bedroom to sleep in. He was very vocally against the idea, much to your chagrin. As much as you want to understand, no Stan, stop being an asshole and we can sort this out when morning comes. _You look like shit_ \---you told him that, in a much less profane way, of course.

You were the one who offered the suggestion since it was the only room that had a comfortable bed, besides yours of course. The next best option was the mattress on the floor inside a room stocked with cursed and not entirely cursed items acquired by Ford's misadventures in the past six years.

Stan couldn't sleep. There was an uneasy chill inside the room like he was being watched. Earlier, you told him that it was natural to feel that's an individual to feel that way. You had said there was a local legend called "The Hide Behind."

"Yeah, like hide in my behind," he said with a roll of his eyes.

"Kind of like having a faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home," you had explained nonchalantly after taking a careful drink of Pitt Cola, avoiding the actual pits from each sip.

"Well, that's awfully too specific."

You had given him a shrug.

Uncomfortable, his arms wound tightly around his brother's journal and rolled onto his side. He closed his eyes, hard, hard, harder until they hurt because he really needed to sleep now and it felt it was barely past midnight. Pressing his face down the couch, his nose caught a faint whiff of a familiar scent, realizing its the smell of the ivory soap he had used earlier in the shower.

Who would have thought that he'd get rid of that vexing body odor of his that dried under the sun which smelled ten times horrendous? Certainly not Stan of yesterday.

The observation made him grumble, muffled when his face was pressed flat, then there was a rattle nearby.

Okay, _someone_ was definitely watching him. From his peripherals, he noticed the slow movement which ultimately stopped when he actually looked at it. Stan slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes. The room was dark, so it took time for his vision to adjust in the shadows---

Oh, joy. Apparently, he's outnumbered. There were more than a pair of eyes surrounding him.

Lucky him.

Well, was this the part where he runs?

* * *

  
On the other hand, you were walking aimlessly in a vast blue space surrounded by various scholarly items all familiar to you.

It seemed like you're in a place wherein a library and a laboratory had been combined due to an earthquake. There were illustrations of photosynthesis and cellular respiration cycles handwritten on aged papers taped together, together with chalkboards and notebooks with hastily scribbled notes. Sealed glasswares, each filled and labeled differently, clinked against each other as they hovered; your fingers plucked one test tube from the air and reeled back upon realizing that the colorful matter inside it was from a gnome's vomit. You pushed forward the seemingly unending place, eyeing the unfinished Punnett square diagrams that seemed to be written in the air.

Suddenly, as you were about to peer through a microscope near the floating journals, a dark shadow in the shape of a triangle loomed over you. Feeling a dread chill ran down your spine, you whipped your head backward and saw Bill Cipher with that awful glee in his eye that he knew you loathed with all your life.

"Hey, Discount Specs!" the triangle maniac's echoing voice surrounded you. It seemed that each time he spoke, his voice echoed. Oh, what a time to be alive. He waved a hand at you as he circled around you like some crazed vulture waiting for its prey to die---Well, it could be interpreted as a simile or just a plain description because he's still waiting for you to die, one way or another. "Long time, no see?"

You let out a withering sigh, exasperated. "What do you want, Bill Cipher?"

"What do I want? Oh, maybe you need a little fixer-upper in that one." He ceased moving with his back against you. Then, he made a beeline towards you, nearing and nearing as he spoke each word with his eye growing larger and larger until his pupil seemed as small as a dot. "What do **you** want?"

 _Trust no one,_ you told yourself. _Trust no one_.

Back when he was still Ford's muse, Bill tried to torment you every chance he controlled Ford's mind. Sometimes he would randomly ask you if you wanted to know the exact time of your death when you're using the toilet. Other times would be tricking you to take him up to the town's water tower, so he could teach you how to skydive without a parachute. Or insinuate about your boss-assistant relationship with Ford even if it had been established that _yes, you were both friends in college_ and no, _you don't need to confess to him about anything because you don't even like-like each other in that way_.

Once, he'd sung about returning on a sunny day to prevent you from catching a shut-eye when you needed it the most. This time, you'd give anything to shut his eye.

Unimpressed by your lack of answer, he leaned back. With a snap of his finger, his eye reverted in its normal size as a rip in the fabric of the space tore up and revealed Ford trapped on the other side. The telltale signs that he had been through the bowels of hell only fueled your anger for the equilateral triangle which you'd very much likely give a ninety-degree angle. He was scruffier than the last time you left him. His face was dirt-streaked, littered with bruises and caked with dried blood.

 _Trust no one_.

"Am I right, Pesky Specsy? It's kinda getting dull having him around here. Maybe that's why you don't want him to be your Bohr-friend!" Laughing when he noticed your gaping expression, he circled you once more.

Ford reached out and tried to grab you, screaming your name out for help. You shut your eyes, closing out every shout of pain and hopelessness coming from the hole.

_Trust no one!_

Lips pursed and shoulders taut, you contained your anger. You knew you were better than this, Ford taught you well to not be easily swayed by Bill's deception. But the odds of your former scientist boss in the clutches of this triangular demon since he's in god-knows-where dimension...

Well, what are the odds? You don't know, and certainly, don't want to know if you were so sleep deprived right now.

Huffing slowly, you turned to Bill whilst feigned displeasure because, in all honesty, you're tired. You wanted to go home after wrapping him up with plastic wrap and then heating him with a hairdryer. Could you just rip his eye out rather than engaging in his game? But, you chose the latter, not that you were interested. Really, you would just pull at his strings for a while then be done with it. "Let me guess, trying to convince me into a deal with you?"

Bill flew away in a loop and back at you. "Yipee!" he cheered with his arms flailed out. "Bingo! Let me tell you this, Spectacles, that Sixer has been useless and I'm getting tired of his mind and whatnot. So, what I need is a fresh smarty brain that I could use as a puppet."

"What do I get in exchange?"

"Weeell," he swiveled backward until he reached Ford which attempted to grab Bill by the base, but flew away back to your shoulder, "You can get Fordsy! Plus, your heart's desire. Pretty swanky, huh?"

Finally, you glared at him for real. "No."

Bill hovered above your head, scandalized. "What?! Aw, come on!" Like a petulant child, he laid on your head with his head and arms dangling down in your field of vision. "You're the most difficult human to be convinced unlike your dumb genius Stanford," he grumbled before continuing to whine, "You're not interested in the circumstances of your death in the far future, the lucky numbers of the Oregon State Lottery, how the human race came to be, the existence of Jes---"

At this rate, you stopped listening and started counting how many Erlenmeyer flasks float by which at least it's more than light years interesting than what this bitch ass soon-to-be scalene triangle has to offer. Almost a sudden, he froze a top of your head.

You glanced up to see that he's no longer there, ah take whoever supreme being watching omnisciently. As you were about to turn and find an exit out of this madness, Bill's small figure surged forward, stopping you from taking another step and making your heart feel like it has been thrown out of your rib cage.

"Unless," he prolonged the word in suspicion with a twirl of his finger. His one eye narrowed into a stare that you recognized as devious and diabolical. Bill snapped his finger which produced Ford in thin air, the rip in the fabric of space disappearing.

Ford crawled towards you and had his arms around your legs. Your first instinct was to wrap him up in your embrace and carry him out to give him an hour-long of what did I tell you on trusting strangers you met in a cave? But at the bottom of your stomach, you had a feeling that there's more to this. More to Ford's plead of, "Please I'm begging you to save me!"

"Bill, stop," you growled lowly.

"Why won't you help me?" Ford grabbed at your knee, desperate. But you ought to not pay him mind.

Bill's snicker echoed. "Well, well, well. Got your attention now, Discount Spectacles!"

"Shut yer yap before I make you obtuse!"

"Maybe you didn't care for Ford after all!"

Wait, what's gotten in his damned mind?

Bill continued, amused at your obvious horror, "You used him so you could take credit of his research, right? Right. Although you didn't know how to get rid of him. Alas, now he's here, and you have the advantage! That's why you're ignoring Sixer. Now tell me," he uttered your name with a deep voice making your face pale, " **AM**... **I**... **WRONG**?"

_TRUST NO ONE!_

_He's taunting you, this isn't true_ , you thought, watching his figure grow larger as he glowered at you. Without thinking twice, you punched him in the eye as hard as you could before he could even turn red. The impact made him step back and complain about how he's surprised you could really throw a punch, wow. You tighten your fist, yanked your feet out of Not-Ford's grasp, and thrust into Bill's eye socket deeper, deeper, putting all the anger you had bottled up from the past few months.

"HEY! STOP THAT!" Bill growled in a distorted voice. Hands raised, he summoned a strong gust of wind at you, knocking you away from his one and only eye.

You were thrown down the floor, head first which slammed painfully as you made contact on the ground. You're pretty sure that you'll be needing to make a grand cover-up story by the time you visit town because your forehead must have been swelling at this rate. Everything was spinning, your head throbbing, and your ears rang loudly. With the remaining energy you had, you glanced up, eyelids heavy.

Bill returned into his normal size with his hands on the base of his body. "Too bad I can't torture you in the mindscape for fun." He shook the apex of his body in resignation as he snapped his fingers again, making Not-Ford disappear. He hovered in front of your face; his eye narrowed. You noticed it was so with its nerves at its corners more prominent. "For now, I'm gonna haunt your dreams. HAHA!" Another snap of his finger, a big warp hole emerged underneath you and before you knew it, you're falling in it.

"Remember! Dreams are transient dimensions, time is tenseless therefore not real, so go buy gold! BYE!" he said from above with a tip of his hat.

As you were about to be engulfed by darkness, your body was met with the ground again, this time much much hurtful than before.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" Bill slapped his apex in mock forgetfulness. "You might wanna check on Stanley if I were you. Hey, don't go lose another twin, am I right? HAHA! Anyways, byes times height divided by two!"

With that, the warp hole swallowed you whole and brought you back to the real world.


	2. Gnome Sweet Gnome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i know, my bad, i said that this chapter would be up last week but life got in the way
> 
> and, don't forget to read the revised ch. 1 if you're one of the few who had read the unedited version of it

You were awakened by infernal shouts of the most colorful vulgar language you'd ever heard, followed by a loud thud from the floor above you. Wisps of sawdust billowed down from the aftermath and made you sneeze. Now, you were definitely awake, thanks to the most generous sneeze you had made.

With a sigh that you dragged longer than usual, you rolled away from your bed, and ouch, your head throbbed badly that it could've been a spinning top. Though there was no visible bump swelling when you clutched it. It felt like the injury came from inside your head rather than externally even when you swore forehead itself slammed on the mindscape's ground. Must have been some of Bill's voodoo shit or something.

Kicking the comforter away, you got up and lazily dropped your feet on the ground, hitting something hard, hairy, and apparently angry that you made him into a footrest.

"Shmebulock!" he cried, looking like you'd stolen from candy from him.

"What the--" As quickly as you could manage with a literal imaginary concussion, you tucked your legs back and peered down the wooden floor. A gray-bearded gnome stared up to you, or you had guessed considering that he's wall-eyed, as he rearranged his berry-red hat askew on his head. "Shmebulock, what are you doing here?" You glanced towards the electric clock radio on the nightstand.

 _Two fucking forty-eight AM_.

The realization that you had been awakened in an ungodly hour made you let out the most ungracious groan that could put the manotours to shame.

"Shmebulock," he explained, but you didn't quite understand him. The gnome tugged on your pinky finger, pointing at the door as he shrieked his name again impatiently. When you didn't move, completely stunned at the moment, he tried to yank you unto your feet, and woah, you forgot that gnomes were stronger than an average human.

Defeated, you obliged. "Okay, okay."

He tugged you again and lead you downstairs. When your mind seemed to return to its axis, thankfully, it dawned upon you as you caught sight of more gnomes scurrying here and there from your view atop the stairs. You counted the days from the last time you delivered the promised pies up to the time you left Gravity Falls, so your delivery date was supposed to be--- _Oh_.

Whoops, you're in deep trouble.

Then, another scream came from downstairs. Not wasting a second, you scooped up Shmebulock and hurried towards the living room to witness a bunch of gnomes being hurled at your general direction at the doorway.

Stan yelled, "AAAH! OLD BABIES ARE ATTACKING ME!" He swatted three gnomes and they ended up crashing the window, causing the temperatures to sink a few degrees down because of the howling winter wind entering inside the premises.

You thought that you might be having an aneurysm even without the existence of your mindscape concussion.

The leader of the gnomes, Jeff, protested, more irritated than you and Stan combined, "For the last time, Stanford, we're gnomes!" He seemed to be oblivious to your presence by the doorway, unlike some who are definitely confused whether to regard your arrival or continue assaulting Stan. Gnomes were the most dependent of all creatures you had discovered with Ford; they had a natural inclination to fascists.

"And for the last time, my name is Stan- _ley_!" Stan retorted, sending another wave of gnomes toppling at each other with one strong sweep of the broom. He's as if in a clumsy game of mini-golf, but this had made the gnomes became more aggressive at him. One gnome, which you recognized as Steve, snarled at Stan with bared teeth and clenched fists. He threatened, "Y'all lucky that I've got some pity left in me 'cause you would'a been smashed, you uncultured potato sacks!"

Before he could hit the gnomes once again, you made your way to Stan and plucked every scheming gnome from the ground. Shmebulock climbed behind your back and perched atop of your head. Jason gestured a murderous "I'll be watching you" with his eyes and two fingers as he sat on your shoulder opposite to Carson who's latching on your neck as you held him by the arm. When you bent down to carry Steve, he bit down on the bristles of Stan's broom and the latter jerked the broom to shake Steve off.

Stan noticed you and called your name, giving a vigorous shake of the broom, but Steve still gnawed on for dear life. "Help me out here, would ya?" You wondered why he hadn't beaten up them yet, regarding his history with boxing.

"Okay, Stan, Stan... Stan!" You tried to grab his attention, but he's too invested on getting rid off the gnomes. "Stan? Hey, stop, Stanley! Stop, stop, stop!" With arms spread wide, you blocked the gnomes from him.

He stared at you incredulously. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Shmebulock," announced the said gnome enough for everyone to hear; the gnomes turned to him, then to you which mad every gnome froze and shifted uncomfortably as they cast their eyes down in shame, surprising you. Then, you remembered that they weren't part of the "pie pact." Only Jeff, along with the High Royal Gnome Committee, benefited your deliveries. They couldn't be possibly angry as they're simply under their leader's orders.

"Well, well, well," Jeff said upon seeing you. He jumped down from the chalkboard, and you would have been impressed that he balanced himself on the narrow framing while verbally assaulting Stan if you everything wasn't fucked up. Landing graciously, he rearranged his hat and brushed his long brown fringe aside. He sneered at you, eyes narrowed accusingly, "Look who decided to show up after three---" he raised up three fingers, indignant---"Three weeks, Gnome Mother!"

"Calm down, Jeff. There's no need to be dramatic about this," you reasoned. Amidst the chaos happening inside the shack, you maintained your composure---balancing gnomes clung helplessly to your body, ignoring the probability of having another batch of chewed up cassette tapes, and having more than forty unwelcomed guests past midnight even if you're in the brink of collapsing because of fatigue and concussion. You hadn't had much sleep since before you left town. Traveling with very tight finance across multiple states to find a drifter who changes his name more than thrice wracked up your mind to the extent rest became a backburner.

"I almost ate Steve! I'm going to be a cannibal, my first victim will be Steve, and it's all your fault if Steve's dead!" Jeff paused from his overly exaggerated complaint and turned to Steve, who was now dangling at the broomstick that Stan held high above the ground. "Hahaha, almost got you there, right Steve?" Jeff waggled his index finger playfully at his potential meal.

Emotionless, Steve just stared back at him.

 _Ah, fucking hell._ You had forgotten how this particular gnome loved to give you the headache of a lifetime, though unintentionally that was. He's only less than hundred-years-old, thus the youngest of his species to be at the age of maturity.

Stan turned to you, lowering the broom slightly but not enough for Steve to escape. "Gnome Mother?" he repeated with a tone that sat between humored and confused. You thought it was leaning towards humored by that fucking infuriating twinkle in his eyes albeit tired.

It was your turn to roll your eyes. "It's a long story." Your voice trailed off because you weren't in the wonderful mood for story time, so long story short, Ford got kidnapped and you had to rescue him. As always. It turned out that his anomaly made him a perfect offering for their queen, yet with a little convincing, the tables turned against you and the gnomes had to take you instead to exhaust your baking skills. After all, it's your pie sitting on the windowsill that led them inside Ford's property. The deadline was on the day their queen will die, in layman's' term: your death.

"Gnomes outlive humans," Ford had explained dolefully aftermath after apologizing. He had strict instructions to never ever break that pact. "They are little men of this forest. Anything might occur to you when considering their feral behavior especially when they are multitudes in number."

Up to this point, even though he had gone insane, he's still guilty that you're always sticking up for him when Gravity Falls' weirdness bite back at him, literally and figuratively.

Your posture visibly deflated, but you managed to smile warmly. "Why don't we settle this, hm? Untie my friend and you can be all little darlings in the kitchen as I whip up a nice warm apple p--"

"NO!" Jeff snapped, stubborn as an ass.

"--'M have enough of this! You have exactly one second to get off my brother's house or else I'm gonna uppercut--"

"Stanley!" you said as calmly as you could.

"Shmebulock?" the gnome on your head chirped.

Then, chaos erupted. Everything was happening all at once, and this was a very lovely time for you to feel sleepy. Finally, but wrong timing. Also, you're hungry for a midnight snack. That must be normal for people who venture in the mindscape and have a hard tango with your bobble-of-a-head and the ground.

Stan flicked Steve away that sent him flying somewhere the hallway outside, and you heard retching sounds that reminded you that you might be cleaning up never-ending rainbow barf later in the morning. Jeff sunk his jagged teeth down Stan's ankle, making the latter's scream and signaled another round of war. Crumpled sheets of Ford's notes had been pelted here and there, and you had to restrain Stan from left-hooking Mike and Luke while the gnomes clinging to you stayed put firmly in their positions.

The tension in the room grew thicker and thicker until an imaginary twig snapped inside of you. "Alright, know what? This is a load of bullshit, Jeff!" you shouted loud enough to make your throat burn. Carson, still tucked in your arm, trembled in fear. Everyone inside the living room had their eyes glued at you. "It's probably already three in the morning and it's freezing here. There are motherfucking jelly beans in the upper cupboard. Chew on that while waiting, m'kay?"

Loooooong pause.

It was Jeff who broke the silence with a low whistle. "Wow, did you kiss yourself with that mouth?" he asked with a flippant grin, obviously pleased with himself. "Get it, get it? Y'know because you're Gnome Mother---"

"Can it, Jeff!"

"Shmebulock!"

"Yeah, bullocks! Or whatever mini-Santa said," Stan chortled, regarding the gnome atop of head.

 _Oh, wonderful, Stan's also a dick being a right now_. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" You folded your arms across your chest while mustering all the energy to pull the muscles in your face to convey that everyone breathing here has been bullshitting you.

"Trust me, toots, I'm with you! This is just my defense mechanism."

Jeff released his teeth from Stan's ankle and stepped down from the stacking stool. He crossed his arms as he mulled. "Fine," he said with a roll of his eyes. "But make it quick!"

Stan sighed, but before he could move down, the gnomes growled at him. "Hey!" he said, glaring at them.

"Uh-huh, not you, Stanford."

"Wait, why?" You asked when the gnomes began to circle him again when Jeff beckoned them to.

"Look, it's been a while since we had an actual human hostage--- _No,_ Paul. Our deer is _not_ a human, so Tiny Antlers doesn't count." Then, he paused to ponder for a moment, "Actually, he's more of a slave if you ask me."

It was your turn to glare at him. "Absolutely not!"

Jeff grumbled. "Fine! We'll watch him instead," he scoffed.

"Troll infants are absolutely not gonna babysit me! Go back and scare people off a bridge or somethin'," Stan declared with a huff. He sat down, chin raised and arms folded across his chest.

You turned to leave, stopping midway just to say over your shoulder, "I'm taking Shmebulock, Carson, and Jason with me!" You called out before you turned to Stan. "If Jeff's being an asshole, feel free to whack him with a broom."

Behind you as you walked out, you heard a "Hey, I heard that, Gnome Mother!" and a hearty laugh. On your way to the kitchen, you ignored the birth of another verbal spar and Steve puking colors and sparkles by the front door.

You were just beyond glad that you're out of there.

Now, you only just had to worry about nursing the imaginary concussion and the pies you had to bake with the help of the three gnomes, which you observed were the most diligent ones compared to their passive conformist fellows.

* * *

 

The dark skies turned lighter when you had exhausted all of your recently bought resources to bake apple pies enough to cater forty-two gnomes, including you and Stan.

Lucky for you, the gnomes you took with you never disappointed you; they were willing to carry around flour and apples with ease and Shmebulock helped you to math out the portions in order to make the right number of servings so there wouldn't be less through a confusing game of charades which, uh well, slowed you down as you were distracted on how he can be adorable sometimes if he wasn't cursed to speak only his nickname.

Your chest was lying flat on the table beside the refrigerator, and your cheek was pressed down lazily on the cool surface. Drowsiness was long gone in your system due to the stress you had dealing with Jeff, but your brain felt like it was being pierced by a hammer drill repeatedly. Though, you were relaxed more than ever at some point.

Compared to the living room outside where the gnomes were terrorizing Stan with politics, it was peaceful in the kitchen, your only happy place in the shack, save for the steady running tap water and utensils clinking against each other as they were being washed by your gnome assistants. They handled the courtesy of the post-baking activities as you had to attend to Steve's incessant rainbow vomiting in the hallway.

 _The floorboards would be smelling like happiness and vanilla for weeks_ , you had thought, mopping the color and glitter from the wood.

The kitchen was one of the rare spaces that had no traces of Ford's scholarly works inside the home; it was mostly your territory since he had no time to be there as he's had been in the underground laboratory. You couldn't even recall the last time he was here, probably years (or more) before he was halfway finishing his first journal, and that was just to wash his hands. It was the plainest and most ordinary kitchen most houses would have which you took proud of back in the old days when you and Ford just migrated to Gravity Falls.

"Don't you dare call this a 'refectory,' or you'll be washing your underwear alone." Your words had been thrown at him good-naturedly, but you were dead serious on not having this place be called with deep terms that Ford would have enjoyed just to tick you off.

He'd pretended to be fearful, but the smirk on his face had wiped it out.

 _Dammit_ , you missed Ford. It's bullshit not to have him around for the first time even though he's not physically present at all times with you here in the shack.

Your gaze turned back to the living room. Stan slumped back at the armchair as he haughtily shared his opinion about global warming to the gnomes.

"The globe gets hotter every time I take my shirt off," he said and he waved his hand nonchalantly, slipping back into his classic Pines suave that you hadn't seen since high school. He gave a theatrical wink at your direction after noticing you were watching him, to which made you chuckle, albeit weary. "I can't help it!"

You're grateful to be reunited with him, even though it was at the expense of Ford's disappearance. Earlier, you tried to make the catching up seemed as if the years apart were merely a dream, although you couldn't help it but to compare and measure out the differences between high school Stan and mullet Stan at the back of your mind.

You just missed him so much, 'kay? High school years without him nerds from bullies dickheaded (spearheaded) by Crampelter was boring. You spent community service chores and trips to the principal's office alone.

Now, he looked like a washed up ship wreckage on the shore of Glass Shard Beach, trying to pull up his cool facade which pissed you off because he's not cool with everything.

Carson tugged the hem of your pajamas, pulling you out from your pitiful broody thoughts. "The pies are ready, Gnome Mother."

You nodded without peeling your face off on the table, then ultimately regretted that you did because another round of pounding aches shot through your skull. Sighing, you begrudgingly dragged yourself to sit upright and pushed yourself from your seat to follow the gnomes who each carried a fresh-from-the-oven apple pie. You grabbed two mugs of piping hot chocolate and asked the gnomes to l3ad the way. Apparently, your gnome helpers increased to twenty-seven in three hours. Oddly enough, most of them were in groups when they came in the kitchen, asking if you had needed help in counting air molecules incorporated in the batter to which you agreed without hesitation yet with an eyebrow raised, intrigued. They must have given up bearing Jeff promulgating his political agenda.

"Right this way, Gnome Mother," a gnome piped up respectfully, leading you and the rest of the queue of your helpers upstairs.

At first, you were more than perplexed in why the actual hell was the gnomes taking you there. Were they finally gonna push you over the roof and declare dominance over the human race, a race which consisted entirely of Crampelter's bloodline? Sure, that's fine with you as long but not quite a hundred percent because you hadn't written down your will, which by fact six years late, that you were going to leave everything to Shmebulock and none for---

Oh, this was way better, except the extinction of the lineage of Crampelter could be the better best.

The parlor room had been converted with magic, or so you thought. Its atmosphere felt a thousand times cozier than it had ever been. Pillow, blankets, duvets, and mattresses were gathered at the middle of the room in front of the fireplace which was fueled by paper stacks with Ford's haphazardous penmanship, mainly "TRUST NO ONE" written over and over again beside the equation for a nuclear astrophysical concept on the probability of Zodiac sign compatibility.

You didn't even remember that the shack had this large surplus of beddings.

The gnomes were huddled together in a pillow fort, and you were impressed on the way it had been built since it seemed damn sturdy. They even had makeshift flags made by their own hats and Ford's chewed-up fountain pens.

Perched on one of the highly-stacked pillows acting as one of the fort's towers was Jeff. He hopped down when he saw you enter and jogged towards you. "Hey, uh, Gnome Mother?" he said nervously.

You restrained yourself from rolling your eyes. "What do you want, Jeff?" you asked, exasperated.

"Hope you don't mind, but the fellows 'n' I gathered these for you as an apology for coming in the dead of the night." Jeff rubbed the back of his neck, refusing to look you in the eye.

"This is nice." Your hand ruffled his hair, a forced smile on your lips. Knowing Jeff, you knew he'd still be an asshole after this, but he's too preoccupied of trying to win back your favor, which he never really even had so nonexistent, that your gesture boosted his ego that he didn't see through it.

He beamed at you. "Bada bing bada boom! Glad ya like it, Gnome Mother," he cheered as he made pseudo-pistols with his fingers at your direction, then he scurried off to slip back to his pushover attitude with his subjects.

Facing the brightly-lit fireplace, Stan hogged all the good comforters and pillows, dozing off with his mouth ajar. _Traitor_. As the pies were being distributed around by the gnomes, you sat beside him, unwrapped the gray comforter from the shoulder near you, and draped it over your own so you'd share. You shifted close to revel the heat from the fire and the hot chocolate nursed in your palms.

"So, Gnome Mother?" You heard Stan mumbled gruffly, eyes still closed.

He's wearing your brown rainbow-stripe ski jacket, you noticed. Except for his a red long-sleeved shirt which he wore underneath your jacket, He refused to wear any of Ford's clothes no matter how much you convinced him. Luckily, you still had your favorite winter jacket back in the seventies that's thrice your size but fitted Stan snugly, refusing to throw it out for sentimental value's sake since it was the first article of clothing you bought with your own income.

Now, Stan's wearing something you valued dearly and looked extremely ugh, you don't know, maybe safe in it and you felt that that was nothing short of intimate. Sure, you shared everything you had with Stan back when you were kids, but this was something special to you. Maybe it's because you're both technically adults now and the last time you had shared clothes with him was back when you were twelve-years-old.

"Eat my Jersey shorts," you snapped with a tinge of fondness in your voice, passing him the other mug of hot chocolate. "The gnomes are a bunch of wenches and they could've picked a gender-neutral term. Not all mothers can bake. Plus, my head feels like it's going to be the next Smack-an-Otter any minute now. I haven't slept since '64."

Stan hummed in lieu of a laugh and looked at you with one eye opened before a comfortable silence settled between you as the two of you enjoyed your early breakfast.

Then as you accepted a big and generous slice of apple pie from Jason, his small red hat, as well as the pie's shape, reminded you of the silhouette of Bill Cipher, causing you to stiffen visibly. You didn't eat, then. When confronted by Stan, you brushed it off, simply explaining that you had remembered that rest of the journals were to be recovered immediately first thing in the afternoon.

Did Ford felt this resentment over triangular-shaped headwears whenever you invited Shmebulock in the shack? You couldn't discipline yourself from recollecting your encounter with the dream demon, not when he had warned you about the gnomes' presence earlier. Vaguely, but it's a warning of sorts, nonetheless, knowing this demon for months.

You swallowed hard, tasting the already stale saccharine tang. "Hey," you began after a few sloppy attempts of prompting. How does one even casually bring up that a demonic sentient had been tormenting them in sleep? "Uh, so... Bill visited me in my dreams."

In mid-drink, Stan paused and lowered his mug from his lips. His pensive gaze and silence made you more anxious to share that everything that Bill told you haunted you in the most fucked up way ever since you woke up from that dream.

He'll listen. This was Stanley Filbrick  _motherfucking_ Pines, the Glass Shard's friendly neighborhood _jockass_ (jackass was more on Crampelter and Thistle Downe category). You steeled yourself with words of affirmation directly lifted from the self-help books from the town library. "He claimed that he had Ford and tried to convince me through a deal," you explained.

Stan must have noticed how fragile you looked because he scooted closer and looped an arm over your shoulder. You didn't care that you're vulnerable in front of him because he's your friend and Bill had been through your mind one way or another. And, you needed a break from all of these. Ever since Princess Unattaina-Bill flirted with Ford, you didn't have much peace because that made living with Ford extremely difficult.

You were so alone in spite of having Ford, but that was a "one way or another" condition. All those months of crippling loneliness had been bottled inside of you, and you're already pouring it out, and you couldn't even cry because you're very tired and wanted everything to stop. Everything confused you now, and you ultimately regretted speaking but you couldn't find yourself to shut your mouth.

"I don't want to believe him, Stanley. Not after everything that demon had done. I don't want to fall for his tricks. I want to be the better guy in this one, and it downright sucks. But what if it's really our Ford and not an illusion? What if Bill really had him? I want to believe, Stanley, because I'm still holding on, but I don't want to get the easy way out," then, in a low whisper, you said, "I don't want to end up like Ford and be trapped into one of Bill's tricks." Then, you stopped, suddenly out of words but there was a novel of feelings you had to pour out. You settled on saying, "I'm glad that you're here, Stanley."

Out of all the things that tumbled out of your mouth, this was the only statement you're confident to confess. You weren't sure why. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation talking.

Stan tensed as his breath hitched his throat. Any awkward words that he was about to say to you in an attempt to let you know that he's there for you had been thrown out of the window. "Wha--- I, uh..." It was his turn to choke on his words, probably would look more horrifying if he had been drinking from his mug. "Can you say that again?" God, he really was stupid in terms of feelings.

Noticing how the mood suddenly shifted and it's all because of your own damn fault, you inhaled hard through your nose that you're afraid it had been disgustingly audible.

Jesus Christ, you're both a mess. Is this why people opt to be a stone-cold bitch? Get it together, the two of you!

"I said that I'm glad you're with me, well, despite _everything_." You swelled with pride that you managed to avoid stammering in the midst of the heat rising in your cheeks and a swollen tongue burnt from the hot chocolate. "I missed you to the max."

Something changed after you dropped those words. Whatever this was, it was left unspoken. You weren't sure what it was though.

Maybe it's the realization that Stanley had you in his embrace midway in your pitiful talk about Bill that toppled both of your mugs and now there's seeping wetness in your pajamas.

Maybe you're passionately ashamed of yourself that you allowed yourself to be this inferior in front of the gnomes who had stopped their pillow fight and listened to your pitiful talk.

Maybe it's just really you, and only you and your pitiful talk in this early morning

But Stan was still hugging you in silence, a gnome sat comfortably on your lap and muttered a desolate, "Shmebulock," and maybe you needed these maybes for a while.

"Sleep," he grumbled as you buried your neck. You knew this was his way on being affectionate and all to you as he wasn't the best person to be a shoulder-to-cry-on, that would be Ford's specialty unless your mother named you as Carla "Hotpants" McCorkle.

You didn't sleep, but he did eventually. Both of you sat, shoulder to shoulder as you stretched out your chocolate-stained pajamas at the open heat and it sticks to your skin as it dries stiff to the touch. The gnomes had been silent, too, but you didn't care to glance behind them if they're asleep as well or had been quietly observing the fatigue-induced conversation unravel from a distance because Stan's leaning far into you. Bless the heavens that you could handle his weight basically dropped unto you.

Your shoulder was numb, neck strained and lower back and hip slaved by the uncomfortable posture. There wasn't any speck of emotion inside of you as your body's labored with the need of rest. Anxiety must have taken a toll on you, and this time, it got you bad. Hours ago, you wanted to go back in bed and lay there for eternity, and now you wanted to crawl out of the grave of the tempting whispers of how the pillows and bedding felt oh so soft and warm underneath you---

"Everything is bogue."

Your head was still pounding to the beat of hell's drum every time you restrained yourself from falling deeper into your much-needed rest. Wild-eyed, staring at the embers in the hearth as sunrise rolled in, you're afraid Bill would return in your head again.

"Sleep is for the weak and I'm not weak," you told Shmebulock, who gave you a look of dismay, with voice croaked with tired and tried of fighting off your natural stasis.

You would let the morning decide what happens to you. The sleepover turned into your own graveyard of a nightmare because, at the back of your head somewhere deep within the bowels of your very being that is centered in your brain, you could hear Bill Cipher laughing at your sunken state and telling you to sleep instead of your own voice.

You didn't know if that was the perfect sign to go back to Ford's research.


End file.
